


breath, suddenly sharpened

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: The three of them were always meant to be together; it was just a shame that one of them had to die first.





	

It was a well-known fact in Beacon Hills that the lives of Peter Hale, Chris Argent, and Stiles Stilinski would always be entwined. They were friends, colleagues, and potentially much more. The town watched as the trio tried time and again to come to terms with the tension simmering among them and was disappointed every time one of the three pulled back from the others.

The fights were as explosive as they were entertaining (much to the Sheriff's chagrin), but everyone knew that even when one of them walked away for a little while, the three of them would always come back together again.

<> <> <> <>

The moment Peter met his lover’s eyes across the bloody battlefield, time stopped, because he understood. Even from yards away, he could see the farewell in them as his beloved Stiles drew the blade against his palm before he half-turned and thrust his hand against the tattoos on the woman's neck.

Peter's roar of denial was lost in the cacophony of voices as all of the sorcerers started to scream, caught in the loop between Stiles and Xiomara, clawing at their marks to try and stop the pain. Xiomara herself tried to push Stiles away, but he only hugged her tighter, and everyone else was frozen in shock as the screaming suddenly cut off and as one, the sorcerers slumped to the ground.

And Peter finally found the breath to scream again.

<> <>

Peter came awake with a sob, body heavy and shirt damp with sweat. For a moment, he was paralyzed, and he choked back the scream that was threatening to force its way out of him as the memory of Stiles's lifeless body flashed through his mind.

It had only been a week, but Peter felt like he had after he’d killed the alpha that had attacked his niece: dizzy, unmoored, feverish. At the time, Stiles had been the steady anchor that he’d needed.

This time, Stiles wasn't here to save him.

He blindly reached for his phone, dialing the number before he thought better of it. He wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when the hunter didn't answer.

“ _Chris? Chris, he's gone. There were sorcerers and they were going to kill everyone and he...he saved us, of course. I don't know what to do without him. It's going to be fine, though. I'm going to bring him back_.”

<> <>

“ _Chris? I hope you're not still angry with me, but if you are, I'm sorry. Derek managed to sneak up on me today. Derek. Can you imagine? Worse, I'm fairly certain that Talia scolded him for it, like I’m a helpless pup in need of her protection. I even passed Lydia on the street and she didn't threaten to eviscerate me. I don't know what the world is coming to.”_

 _“I think I had my first panic attack today. It felt like someone was simultaneously squeezing my lungs and hitting me with a sledgehammer. While I was laying there, I wondered if that's how Stiles felt when he had panic attacks because if it was, we never did enough for him. Once we get him back, we can make it up to him._ ”

<> <>

 _I'm getting too old for this_ , Chris thought, peeling off layers of mud and muck-laden clothes as he moved toward the shower. Sure, the siren hunt had been a good distraction, but he hadn't liked being off-grid for so long, and this hunt had taken even longer than expected.

It was unlikely that anyone had tried to reach him, but there was always a chance that Stiles would call him to complain about Peter, and Chris owed it to the other man to listen. Stiles was really good at dealing with Peter even at his worst, and the other man was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Still, it was kind of an asshole thing for Chris to do, making Stiles deal with his and Peter's fallout.

So, he'd take a well-deserved hot shower, sleep for a day, and then he’d see what kind of messes Peter had created while he’d been gone and decide if he wanted to help clean them up.

Twenty-two hours and a massive breakfast later, Chris felt almost human again. Uriah had offered him another short job down in Georgia, but Chris decided he better check in on Beacon Hills before doing anything else.

His eyes actually bugged out a little when he saw the number of messages he had, but he shoved aside the sudden swooping in his stomach and began to listen.

The first was from Stiles, the day after Chris had left. _"Hey, it's Stiles. I don't know what happened, but Peter's being especially prickly, so I'm assuming that it's his fault. I’ll look out for him; you just take care of yourself, okay?"_

A week later, there was another message. _“Hey, it's Stiles. Take care of Peter for me, will you?”_

The unease in his stomach got noticeably worse, but he kept listening. The next message was from Peter.

 _“Stiles is going to do something stupid, I know it.”_ Chris shifted uncomfortably, even as Peter paused.  _“I know that I shouldn't have said those things, but you needed to hear them, and I wasn't wrong.”_ Another pause _.“You should come home. It's going to take both of us to keep Stiles from getting himself killed.”_

The rest of the messages were all from Peter: Peter sobbing that Stiles was gone, talking about Derek and Lydia, the panic attack. The next few messages were about spells and potions and Talia being nosy and how thin the Sheriff looked.

Chris had already started packing--his phone on speakerphone--by the fourth message, and was in the car just as number nine began.

_“I don't want to get his hopes up, Chris, in case something goes wrong, but I'm fairly certain that this one is going to work. I can give the Sheriff his son back. The most difficult part is finding the time to do it, what with the lovely Laura always skulking around in the background. Honestly, one little mishap with a charmed dagger and people assume you're suicidal…”_

The last message from Peter had been left the day before Chris had gotten home. The wolf sounded shaky, and breathless, and so unlike Peter that it made the hunter's heart pound in fear.

 _“I...I don't know what to do. I've tried everything, and this was my best shot and...Stiles wouldn't give up but, I'm just so tired. Do you remember that time he talked us into going camping out in Yellowstone? On our way back from that hunt with the hydra? Stiles was being ridiculous, but he still looked like some kind of fairy creature dancing under the stars. I could tell that you wanted him, but you never made a move."_ Peter was silent for so long Chris worried that the other man had passed out, but then he murmured, _“The stars are just as pretty out here, you know. I wonder if I’ll see Stiles dancing if I close my eyes.”_

Chris sped faster.

<> <>

There was something in the forest; a strange magic whose source could not be traced. Talia didn't spare much thought for it, considering that her brother had recently poisoned himself during some obscure ritual that had even Deaton's eyebrows raising in alarm. Thankfully, Derek and Cora had left everything on scene as they found it, more concerned with the state of their uncle than the magic around him. Deaton had taken one look at Peter, however, and insisted he see the site of the ritual for himself.

The emissary grew progressively paler as they walked, sucking in a sharp breath when they reached the place where Peter had attempted the spell. He recovered moments later, but Talia noticed that he avoided disturbing the area in any way. “Do you know if it worked?” the man asked her.

“I don't even know what it is,” she said impatiently, “and frankly, I don't care. “Will Peter recover?”

Deaton looked from the site of the ritual, to Talia, before turning to stare deeper into the forest, and the alpha had to strain to hear his reply. “I think that depends on Stiles,” he murmured.

<> <>

There were all sorts of things that Chris _should_ have done as soon as he got into town: he should have checked in with the Sheriff, he should have let Talia know he was home, but he did neither of those things. Instead, he drove to Peter's apartment. Unsurprisingly, the wolf wasn't there, but Chris wanted to take the opportunity to search the other man's space and find out exactly where Peter's headspace was before he let Talia or Peter give him a half-assed explanation of what was happening.

Stepping into the apartment felt a lot like coming home, but Chris squashed that feeling in favor of looking around. The living room was neat, but it smelled stale; the refrigerator was almost completely empty.

Peter's bedroom, however, was an entirely different story.

The sheer amount of paper on the walls was staggering. Books were piled on the floor, clothes strung haphazardly over the chair in the corner, bed unmade. Chris could see a flash of color poking out from under Peter's sheets and realized that it was one of Stiles's shirts.

There was a wooden chest in the back of Peter's closet, filled with vials of unidentifiable liquids and sachets of herbs that smelled a lot like wolfsbane. At the bottom of the chest was a was a velvet bag, and, with a disbelieving scoff at the thought that Peter kept anything in a velvet bag, Chris turned it over to let the contents fall into his hand.

A lone picture fluttered out, creased and partially mangled, but easy enough for the hunter to recognize because he was in it.

The photograph was a couple of years old, taken on the day that Stiles got his alchemist certification. The three of them had gone out that night to celebrate, and Stiles had managed to coax them into a mostly dwarven establishment and set about having a good time with a level of enthusiasm only Stiles had mastered. By the end of the night, all three of them had been slightly flushed on mead and Stiles had become fast friends with the bar’s owners and most of the patrons. The owner’s daughter had taken the picture right after one of the dwarves had goaded Peter into kissing Chris. Both of them had slightly glazed looks on their faces, but Chris suspected that it was the look on Stiles's face as he looked at them--the naked desire in his eyes--that had driven Peter to keep it.

Chris knew that he certainly would have.

With the photograph safely back in its hiding place, Chris moved to the papers on the walls. Many of them were marked through, failed attempts at spells. Some were lists of ingredients with notes about potency or potential interactions, and the hunter was surprised at just how many of the spells he didn't recognize. The fact that Peter had managed to get his hands on some of these spells--let alone their ingredients, if the notes were accurate--was terrifying.

(The fact that it also made something in the hunter thrum with desire was neither here nor there, and nothing that Chris was about to let himself dwell on at the moment.)

Chris spent more time than was strictly necessary searching through Peter's things, pausing over memories the items evoked. The next time he looked at his watch two hours had passed, and Chris cursed at himself for getting distracted. Who knew how the Hales would react if one of them found him here?

Not that it mattered; Peter was the important thing right now. He paused just long enough to pull his shirt off, grab another from Peter's closet and pull the new one on before he headed out the door.

<> <>

Nearly three days after the attempted spell, Peter remained unconscious in Deaton's clinic. At least one of his family members was with him at all times, usually more, holding his hand and asking him to come back to them.

Talia was upset enough that she was trying even her emissary’s patience, but he had remained tight-lipped after the first time he had mentioned Stiles.

“Stiles is dead,” Talia stated, again, practically following the man into the operating room where he was supposed to be neutering Mrs. Johnson’s cat.

Deaton nodded distractedly. “Yes.”

“Was Peter trying to kill himself?” the alpha asked, distress clouding her features.

“No. Though I suspect these continued failures are detrimental to his health, psychologically, if nothing else,” he said plainly.

“Failures to do what?” As far as Talia could tell, very little of what her younger brother had done over the past few weeks made sense. If Deaton knew what was going on, it was his duty tell her. She fought back the instinct to bare her teeth at him.

“To bring Stiles back, of course.”

Talia paled. “He...he can't do that. Right?”

“It certainly seems impossible,” Deaton finally conceded, taking the alpha’s stunned silence as an opportunity to escort her out of his workspace.

<> <>

Deep in the forest, farther than even the wolves traveled, was an old cabin. Once used by game hunters, it had long since been abandoned and left for Mother Nature to claim as her own.

It would do nicely, he thought, with just a little care.

He spent the day digging his hands into the dirt, learning and making choices. The forest held its breath.

“Yes, I like you, too,” he said.

<> <>

Kieran Hale had long claimed that his favorite member of the Hale family was Chris Argent, a fact that made Peter huff and Talia roll her eyes in exasperation.

After all, he loved his wife and his children--loved all of his wife's family--but only he and Chris could truly understand what the Hales were like from an outsider’s perspective. Neither of them had grown up in Beacon Hills, and so understood that a Hale-less life was possible.

Boring, maybe, but possible.

Chris moved to Beacon Hills his senior year in high school, a stoic personality utterly unprepared for the unstoppable force that was Peter Hale. Chris held out admirably against Peter's overwhelming tendencies, never responding to Peter's prodding and watching the wolf with a vague detachment that just made Peter work harder for the other boy’s attention.

When Peter finally managed to lure Chris to the house months later for a school project, it was Stiles, not Peter, who convinced him that the Hales were worth knowing. Stiles, who just happened to be coming over to study with Derek, had taken one look at Chris and made some sarcastic comment about the terminal velocity of wolfsbane bullets that had made Chris smile and step inside the Hale house.

Chris was surprised to find that he liked Peter and, just like that, he had immediately and irrevocably been hijacked into the Hale family. Stiles periodically assured him he'd get used to it.

Truthfully, Stiles had probably helped Chris adjust better than Kieran. Stiles was whip-smart and perceptive, and despite being a few years younger, was always there to give Chris a little push, or rein Peter in when things became strained between them.

The bonds that grew between the three of them--even when Peter went to college, Chris started hunting, and Stiles eventually left in search of a mentor--were practically unbreakable.

They left each other, they met again, they traveled together, they came home.

Everyone watched the trio with curious eyes, wondering who would make the first move.

Then Chris left. Then the cadre came. Then Stiles died.

And now Kieran was sitting by a sickbed, holding his brother-in-law’s hand and hoping for a miracle. Kieran had a feeling that the only thing that could save Peter now was Chris, and he was quite sure that the hunter would be willing; unfortunately, he was much less certain that Peter wanted to be saved.

<> <>

By some kind twist of fate, it was Derek who was sitting with Peter when Chris walked straight through the front of the animal clinic to where Peter lay in the back. He completely ignored the inquiries of the receptionist, waved off a curious Scott, and sat down on the low bed before taking his first look at his friend in months. His physical wounds had already healed but there was something _lesser_ about him, as if his mere presence was diminishing as they watched. Chris’s eyes flicked to the silver chain around Peter's neck, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

“Chris?” Derek asked carefully.

The hunter took his wolf’s hand, taking in his fill of a silent Peter, before addressing Derek. “I was on a long-term hunt,” he explained lowly. “When I checked my phone, there were messages. A couple of them were from Stiles, but then Peter called about what had happened. He started talking about trying to get him back. Most of the messages were about Stiles and how to bring him back.”

“That's what he's been doing?”

Chris frowned. “You didn't know?”

Derek's face clouded, and Chris remembered that Derek had been just as close to Stiles as Peter and Chris had been. There were just as many photographs of Stiles with Scott and Derek as there were of Stiles, Chris, and Peter. Maybe more, considering they had known each other their entire lives.

“I would've helped, if I would have known. Scott, too, and probably Cora, even though she just wants to complain about him all the time. Mom smelled blood on him a few times and assumed the worst; had Laura trail him everywhere after that, and Peter never bothered trying to shake her off, which almost worried Mom more than the blood. Laura’s beside herself because she feels like it's her fault that Peter's here.”

“You know that Peter's not the type to let anyone stop him when he wants something,” Chris soothed. Then he paused, and Derek watched his face fall. “Only Stiles could do that.”

“So how do we get both of them back?” Derek asked, letting go of his uncle’s hand to run his fingers nervously through his own hair. “We’ll need to keep it quiet.”

“I don't--”

As soon as Derek's hand left Peter, the wolf arched up with a roar that had Scott, Deaton, and Kieran running into the room, only to stop in shock as the seemingly feral wolf practically threw himself off the bed and demolished his surroundings. Peter, eyes glowing, pushed them aside, literally threw Chris over his shoulder, and ran out of the clinic and into the forest before anyone had recovered their wits enough to stop him.

<> <>

“Would he not suddenly sink into the earth,” he mused, stepping lightly around the flowers, “leaving a barren and blasted spot, where in time would be seen deadly nightshade, dogwood, henbane, and whatever else of vegetable wickedness the climate could produce, all flourishing with hideous luxuriance?” The guardian grinned at his cleverness; he hadn't liked the book in high school, but he had always enjoyed that particular passage, and it was apt now. Surely, anyone with ill intent would find themselves quite unhappy to linger in his garden.

He had planted a few things himself--aconite, belladonna, and oleander--but most things had appeared of their volition, mostly exotic plants whose uses he’d needed to research, to form a harmonious, if unnatural, ecology. What he could possibly need _mala_ _mujer_ for, he didn't know, but far be it for him to question the earth’s magic so long as it didn't attack the house, the gorse, or the giant pitcher plants in the middle of the night.

It was while he was cutting aconite that he felt it--a thump, thump in his chest that echoed against the ground as someone ran deeper and deeper into the forest, nearing his home.

Moments later, a shifter burst through the trees, another man tossed over his shoulder. He didn't bother to move, confident that the garden would protect him from ill-meaning guests. Rather than stopping at the row of kudzu, however, the man ran straight through the garden and into its guardian, taking him to the ground.

<> <>

Being lugged around by a feral Peter Hale wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Chris, but it wasn't exactly his dream scenario, either. The last time he had dealt with feral Peter, it had been as a result of a mischievous imp, and had resulted in the werewolf alternately hanging off of he and Stiles like a lemur for three hours and promising them any number of sexual favors. (The resulting photographs were still gleefully brought out during family functions at the Hale house.) As embarrassing as _this_ was, it was a situation where Peter had been hurt and was running mostly on instinct, but he wasn't out to hurt Chris. Still, the hunter knew better than to fight at the moment, which meant that he was getting increasingly beaten up by the surrounding foliage as they ran deeper into the forest.

They had been running for about thirty minutes before Chris recognized how much quieter it was around them, how even the birdsong had died away as they moved. Whatever it was that had scared off the local wildlife, Peter seemed to be moving _toward_ it, a move that Chris sincerely hoped did not get the both of them killed. Five minutes later, the smell of wolfsbane filled the air, and although Chris tensed, Peter didn't hesitate. He charged through what looked to Chris's point of view like an enormous overgrown garden, moving through more than one plant that should have stopped a werewolf. Before Chris had time to really think about that, though, he was falling forward, both he and Peter landing bodily on another person with a loud grunt.

Chris, who wasn't entirely unharmed from their run, took a moment that catch his breath before realizing that he was on top of this bizarre sandwich and that he should probably help whoever was on the bottom of the pile…

Only to stare in shock at the sight of Peter practically wrapped around the man in question, face pressed into the other person’s neck. Chris couldn't be positive, but it sounded a lot like the wolf was purring.

“Peter?”

Chris was still trying to decide how to proceed when two fat vines reached past him and leveraged the man and his werewolf-barnacle to their feet.

“There, there.” A hand patted Peter’s back. “I'm not looking for a familiar, but we’ll patch you and your friend up before we send you on your way, okay?”

Chris's breath caught. “ _Stiles_?”

<> <>

Almost as soon as Chris had recognized him, the vines were ushering them into the cottage, shutting the door behind the trio and, if Chris wasn't mistaken, growing over the doors and windows so no one could get out.

Stiles didn't seem to notice, and merely started rummaging around in his cabinets for the ingredients to make tea. “I don't get many visitors,” he said, eyeing Chris speculatively, “but I think I'd remember you. I'd definitely remember knowing a werewolf,” he added, gesturing toward Peter. The werewolf wasn't solidly attached to him any more, but he reached out to touch the younger man every few seconds or so.

Chris didn't know how to answer that, or even if he should (since he still wasn't entirely certain that nothing in the strange garden had poisoned them), so he took the easiest route and changed the subject. “Most of your plants shouldn't grow together," he observed. "Or in California at all.”

“Every species of plant is a law unto itself,” Stiles said lightly, handing Chris his tea made just the way he liked it. “I am merely the guardian. They make their own choices, and they know they need to play nicely if they want to stay.”

“How long have you been in the forest?” the hunter asked.

Stiles stilled in the middle of giving Peter his tea, eyes focused on the silver chain around Peter's neck. He ignored Chris entirely, and pulled on the chain until the St. Christopher medal lay in his palm.

“Thou who wast terrifying both in strength and in countenance…” he murmured, frowning thoughtfully before looking back to Chris. “He wears it for you.”

Chris swallowed. Until he had seen the chain around Peter's neck earlier, he'd thought that the wolf had gotten rid of it. Now, watching the other man slowly come back to himself, Chris realized that he should have known better.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Why are you here?”

“Because he wears it for you as well,” Chris admitted, stepping forward and loosely bracketing Stiles against the counter. “Do you remember what happened to you?” he asked gently, trying not to frown at the bewilderment written plainly on Stiles's face.

He was almost back to normal, Peter was almost back to normal; it was Stiles who needed help now. Chris spared a quick glance for Peter, who was shaking his head as if to clear it and inching closer, before turning back to Stiles, whose wide, frightened eyes were answer enough.

“We've never done this before, but I think it might help.”

Without giving himself or the younger man a chance to think about it, Chris surged forward to press his lips to Stiles's. He was vaguely aware of Peter whining, of what sounded like trees rattling against windows, but he let it go as soon as Stiles fisted his hands in his shirt and started kissing back. He took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, basking in the rightness of it, and pulled back only when he finally needed the air.

Stiles looked dazed and flushed, but not frightened, and Chris had just a moment to enjoy the view before Peter was pushing him aside and pouncing on Stiles like a man at his last supper.

Chris literally saw the moment Stiles's eyes flashed in recognition and he realized exactly what was happening, and he melted into Peter's kiss.

Then Peter was pulling his hunter forward toward the two of them, and Chris’s brain shorted out once again.

<> <>

Hours later, when the men were reacquainted and the vines still hadn't moved from the door, Chris and Peter took turns tracing the new tattoos on their lover’s body and taking bets on who would be the first person to find them.

(It was the Sheriff.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "When Great Trees Fall" by Maya Angelou.
> 
> All of the plants listed come from the book _Wicked Plants_ by Amy Stewart, and the book that Stiles quotes is _The Scarlet Letter_ by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
> 
> I had forgotten how much this story had in common with last week's post; had I realized sooner, I would have waited on this one. That being said, I can't tell you what I'll be posting next week because I'm probably going to shuffle the schedule a bit, so it will just have to be a surprise.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
